Slim Chance
by noenigma
Summary: A new case gives Lewis and Hathaway a chance to do what they do best...catch a murderer.
1. Chapter 1

I thought it was time I tried to write a mystery. After all, how long can I continue to write stories around a murder mystery show and never actually tackle one? Apparently, at least a bit longer, because even though I was determined to write a mystery, it didn't turn out to be the satisfying 'whodunit' I was hoping for. Even so, it seems to be a move in that direction because a crime and the investigation surrounding it actually figure in this story. That's something I don't think I've actually ever tackled in any of my stories not directly recapping actual episodes…even in them, I think I've managed to avoid dealing directly with the underlying mystery of the show.

_Though not a crossover by any means, this one does feature brief guest appearances from DI Lynley and DS Havers of New Scotland Yard because I was sorely disappointed when the Lynley pair worked a case in Oxford, and there was not one mention of Morse or Lewis, _The Inspector Lynley Mysteries: A Cry for Justice_. (Plus, I'm intrigued by Havers who I think might be the most _human_ female police character ever developed for television.) _

**Slim Chance**

_Part One_

The killer misjudged two things when he decided he could get away with murder. First, he misjudged his own intelligence. Like a good many men before him, he thought he was smarter than the average cop, even the average Oxford cop. That was a mistake he might have managed to surmount. But, the second mistake, the assumption that he'd be pitted against an average Oxford cop…that was his undoing.

"Tell us about her," Inspector Robbie Lewis said as he met his sergeant upon arriving at the murder scene.

"Name's Courtney Wethersmith—"

"Daughter of Lonsdale's Wethersmith?"

"Sister, Sir. Forty-three, unmarried, in town for a family reunion. Down from London."

"Cause of death?"

"Dr. Hobson is with the body now…looks pretty straightforward, but—I don't think the doctor is completely satisfied."

"About what exactly?" The two men had ducked under the crime scene tape and crossed the courtyard as they talked, and Lewis nodded a greeting to the pathologist kneeling beside the dead woman as he asked that last question. He squatted down for a better look himself while after one quick glance his sergeant found the shrubbery off to the side of more interest.

"Well, she looks like a jumper," Dr. Laura Hobson spoke up.

"But?" Lewis prompted.

"Most definitely not." She stood and frowned down at both Lewis and the body. "She hit the pavement, certainly, but she was dead before that…time of death sometime between twelve and say…four this morning?"

"And she died how?" Lewis asked. He didn't look up from where he was staring somberly at the woman's bruised and bloody face.

"I'll tell you that once I've had time to have a proper look, but those paving stones did not make that contusion you're looking at…that was made by something else, of that I'm certain. But whether that was the killing blow or not—"

Lewis grunted a reply. "Where do these jokers come from, eh?" he asked. "Don't they watch enough telly to know it's not all that hard for you to tell a jumper from a dead body thrown out a window?"

Hobson gave him a wry grimace and a slight shrug and went back to doing her thing. Lewis stayed beside the dead woman a few more minutes. Hathaway was relatively sure the inspector exchanged a few more words with the pathologist and, knowing Lewis, probably a few with the deceased as well, but as the sergeant was busy taking uniform's report of their quick house-to-house he wasn't privy to either.

Finally, Lewis rose. He nodded his thanks to the doctor and motioned for his sergeant.

"Goodbye to you, too," Hobson called after them, and Lewis waved a distracted hand in her direction without answering back. Hathaway noted with interest that Hobson had not really been irritated at Lewis' lack of farewell, and she hadn't called him on the absence of a 'Good morning, Doctor' upon his arrival either. Apparently things were progressing nicely in the inspector/pathologist relationship at the moment. Hathaway was happy to see it. He had enough trouble with his own relationships; he so did not need to be caught in the middle of Lewis'.

Not that Lewis or Hobson would have ever allowed their personal relationship (if that's what they had; Hathaway spent half the time not sure such a thing existed between the two of them) to interfere with their jobs. It was just that sometimes the working atmosphere was much more congenial than others.

The three of them had spent a couple of hours the previous evening at their favorite pub…well, Hathaway's anyway. Hobson's was a bit louder and a bit pricier; while Lewis'…the sergeant wasn't sure Lewis had a favorite pub. He seemed intimately acquainted with most, if not all, the drinking establishments around Oxfordshire, but if he preferred one over the other Hathaway couldn't have named it. At any rate, they'd spent the early evening relaxed and laughing at the pub, then Hathaway had gone off to practice with his band. How the inspector and the pathologist had finished off the night…he couldn't say or even guess. But, it seemed they had parted amicably enough.

"So, then," his boss said bringing him back to the case. "What's Courtney Wethersmith doing here if she was in town for a big family do? Doesn't seem the sort of place to shunt your out of town relatives." The run-down building, the crumbling pavement, and the neglected flower boxes filled with urban debris instead of flowering greenery bore witness to the truth of that statement. It was not the sort of place the master of Lonsdale College would house his sister, regardless of how they got on.

"No, Sir. She was to be staying at her brother's. At college, actually. However, there was a bit of a row. She'd gone off in a huff, and, according to the cousin I spoke to, no one in the family knows where she'd gotten. From what I've gathered, such occurrences were fairly common. Bit of a drama queen was our Miss Wethersmith."

"How long had she been missing?"

"Since Sunday afternoon…interestingly, she'd only just registered here late last evening."

"So where was she between Sunday afternoon and last night? Any leads?"

"Not yet, Sir. Early days."

"Aye," Lewis said after inhaling deeply and sniffing. "Early days, but with the big cheese from Lonsdale involved, our great leader will be wanting this one solved last Tuesday."

Hathaway threw him an assessing look. Most days DCS Innocent and DI Lewis seemed to have formed an easy alliance after their rocky beginnings when Lewis had first arrived back from special assignment. However, there were still times, especially those involving the high rollers in Oxford politics and society, when that easy alliance dissolved into almost open hostilities. Hathaway hoped this wouldn't be one of them.

Innocent was keen, a bit too keen at times in Lewis' view, to close cases at best possible speed. Bring in a likely enough suspect for questioning, and she'd have the case all sewn up if you weren't careful. Lewis liked to take things a bit slower. He was all for pulling in suspects if he thought it would gain him anything, but he wasn't worried about the stats as much as he was worried about getting things right. Even so, his cautious tendencies didn't cost him much in the solve-time stats; he consistently closed cases in the amount of time it took some other inspectors to kick the incident room into gear. They did, however, help his conviction rate. In all the time Hathaway had worked with the inspector, they'd never had one case handed back to them as unprosecutable or dismissed once it went to trial.

That was the sort of record that should have given Lewis some rather generous leeway with the chief superintendent. And it frequently did, but whether because of her own ambition or because of pressure from those above her, in the presence of old money and influence or new money and raw power, Innocent tended to forget all of that. Lewis was unswayed by money (new or old), titles, or power. Not to say he was totally impartial, but it was the unknowns and the have-nots that were likely to bring out his biases. Even then though, Lewis was a man who believed justice was Justice and that it was for All. Nothing could raise his ire quite as quickly or as blatantly as Innocent's implied partiality. Unless it was her penchant for playing up to the press. Another problem likely to rear its ugly head in a case like this.

Hathaway sighed and mumbled a reluctant agreement. And they were off.

A quick word to the hotel staff who had reluctantly reported the body splayed on the pavement in front of their building and who had just as reluctantly given them the contact information to the clerk, Kira Osborne, who had registered Ms. Wethersmith the evening before. A desultory look around the motel room with its unrumpled bed and specks of blue and white toothpaste in the washbasin and not one hopeful looking scrap of evidence. Followed by an equally unhelpful stop off at the clerk's bedsit.

Kira knew nothing, had seen nothing, and had noticed even less. The two police officers were inclined to believe her; whatever intelligence she'd been born with she'd traded in for the arguable delights of drug-induced, brain-destroying highs. It was a wonder she knew her own name let alone held a job. Kira couldn't tell them if their victim had been distressed or in dire straits upon her arrival at the motel. Or if, while signing the registry, she'd mentioned someone was following her or chatted casually about where she'd been and what she'd been doing. Probably even if Wethersmith had signed the registry with her hands cuffed together and a masked man holding a knife to her throat, the clerk wouldn't have noticed.

Lewis gave up the attempt of getting anything useful from the burnt-out shell of a girl, shook his head, and strode off to his car. Hathaway followed him with a sarcastic 'thanks a lot' thrown over his shoulder to Kira which was totally wasted on the girl.

Lonsdale's Wethersmith, Professor James Calhoun Wethersmith the Fourth, master and a nominee for knighthood, was not delighted to find the police at his door. His secretary, or assistant, or whatever was the going name for university dogsbodies this year announced them in a carefully neutral tone and then quickly disappeared as though to put as much distance between this unwelcome interruption in the master's day and himself as was possible.

Lewis looked the professor over and thought if the circumstances had been different he wouldn't have minded putting a wrench in the man's busy schedule. But, this, notifying the next of kin…even self-important men like Professor James Calhoun Wethersmith the Fourth didn't deserve hearing the news they'd brought him.

"I'm afraid, Sir," he began, "that I have some distressing news for you. Might we sit down?"

Wethersmith frowned at the two policemen and reluctantly ushered them into his sitting room. Haphazard piles of books and files filled the room and had to be shuffled out of the way before they could perch uncomfortably on the dusty, leather sofa.

"Sorry," Wethersmith said with an apologetic grimace. "I'm afraid I don't do much entertaining, and I'm quite busy with the annual Forster review."

Hathaway raised a knowing eyebrow at this; Lewis assumed the Forster review was some big academic accolade or do that he was expected to be wowed by the very mention of…he wasn't. Wowed or interested for that matter.

"Your sister? Courtney, Sir?"

"Courtney? You've come about Courtney? I'm afraid…I don't actually know where she is or what she's up to…gone off home to London, I dare say. She was supposed to be here through the end of the week, but…" he shrugged as though he expected them to understand the Wethersmith family dynamics.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Wethersmith. But, we believe your sister was found dead this morning. We're going to have to ask you to come and identify the body…unless there is someone else?'

The master blinked his faded blue eyes in disbelief and leaned forward with his head inclined to bring his right ear nearer Lewis as though he thought he couldn't be hearing him correctly.

"Courtney? Dead? My sister? Little Courtney?" Tears glittered in his eyes and his voice cracked. Hathaway looked away, licking his lips; Lewis met the man's gaze and nodded his head.

"I'm afraid so, Sir. Or we have reason to believe it's her at any rate. Sergeant, see if you can fetch some tea and perhaps a drop of brandy for the professor, won't you?"

As Hathaway rose to fetch the tea, he heard the professor say, "How can you know it's Courtney? There must be some mistake…" Lewis' sympathetic murmur in response was lost to Hathaway as he headed down the hallway. He wondered though that the cousin he'd spoken to that morning who had informed him about the row between Courtney and her brother and her subsequent absence from the family reunion hadn't taken the time to inform the professor the police had been asking after his sister. It seemed like that would have been the expected thing to do and would have helped prepare the man for the unwelcome, unexpected news of her death. Yet, Hathaway judged it had taken the man completely by surprise. And, if he'd had to offer an opinion, he would have to say that he thought the grief and sorrow building under the man's shocked response was very real and very heart-felt.

Well, clearing the master would please the chief superintendent no end even if it would have been nice to have come straight from the body to the murderer's door.

"Thank you, Sergeant," Lewis said after Hathaway had returned to place the tea into the master's trembling hands. "Professor Wethersmith believes his sister might have been staying with a friend of hers from her college days," he handed Hathaway a paper with a name and address. "Call uniform and have them swing by and give us a lift. You go on and see what you can learn from Mrs. Tevett." Hathaway frowned down at the paper to make sure he could read the inspector's scrawls. Satisfied he could, he nodded an acknowledgment and left Lewis to the distraught academic.

Hathaway was relieved to not have to play nursemaid to the obviously upset man, but he wasn't happy to be sent off. Not because he needed the inspector to hold his hand. No, he was quite capable of interviewing victims, witnesses, and suspects on his own.

The bothersome point was that so was Lewis. Hathaway hated knowing that while he was out chasing down Mrs. Tevett, Lewis would be learning all sorts of things from Wethersmith and who knew whom else. Lewis would fill him in, of course, but…it wouldn't be the same as hearing and seeing the interviews himself. He wouldn't learn nearly as much; both from the interviewees and from watching Lewis at work. Notwithstanding the unhelpful Kira Osbourne, the man could get information from a turnip. He was a master and Hathaway hated losing out on the chance to observe him in action.

He shook his head at his own foolishness. If Lewis had insisted on keeping him close, not letting him earn his keep or prove his worth, he'd have been bristling about that as well. So, 'mustn't grumble' he told himself and drove off to interview Mrs. Tevett.


	2. Chapter 2

_Part Two_

Hathaway's interview with Courtney's old friend shed very little light on the case, and he was apologetic when he made his report to Lewis later that morning.

"She had thought to see something of Courtney while she was in town, but they'd never made firm arrangements and nothing ever came of it. They hadn't spoken since before Courtney came to Oxford."

Lewis said, "Well, we can't expect everything handed to us on a silver platter I suppose. Still, it'll take us days to track down all the Wethersmith aunties and cousins in hopes one of them knows where Courtney had gotten herself off to and why she got herself knocked about and thrown out that window." He leaned back in his chair and put his hands over his head. "Put a call into the Met. See if they can tell us anything about how she spent her time in the big city, eh? She'd no record at all, not even for jaywalking. Model citizen. So not much chance they'll have anything for us, but…"

"Yes, Sir," Hathaway said though it was sure to be a waste of time. A lover of order, he often thought he should find the busywork of policing, eliminating avenues of enquiry, right up his street, but it was one of the things he detested most about the job. Like making a list of things to do just so you could mark them off, not really accomplishing anything in the process.

Lewis glanced the younger man's way sympathetically. He understood Hathaway's disgruntlement with covering all the bases even when it was almost certain to do nothing at all to further the investigation, but he knew the difference between almost certain and dead certain. Too many times he'd seen when the fine line between the two meant the difference between catching a killer and letting one get away to kill again. So, yes, they'd track down every Wethersmith relative and touch base with every police department in the UK if that was what it took to put the Wethersmith woman's killer behind bars.

Diligence was a hallmark of good policing, and in the Wethersmith case that call into the Met which had chafed against Hathaway's need to be busy doing something productive proved pivotal.

The callback came while the pair of detectives was getting the bad news from Hobson. Pathology was not going to solve this case. Any of three separate blows to the head could have been the killing one; the weapon had been the overused blunt instrument, and there was nothing distinctive about it to give them a clue about their killer; their victim had had a late supper and had died before it had had time to completely digest; she hadn't been in the best of shape, but she'd been healthy enough right up until her death; and that was about all the good doctor could tell them. The incoming phone call kept Hathaway from having to murmur an unappreciative thanks for all her non-helpful information, he left Lewis to do that and hurried out into the corridor to take the call.

"Sergeant Hathaway, Oxfordshire CID?" the very London voice on the other end enquired.

"This is Hathaway," he affirmed.

"Sergeant Havers, New Scotland Yard. I understand you're asking after Courtney Wethersmith of #445 Emason Court?"

"That's right."

"Happens we've been looking for Ms. Wethersmith ourselves in connection to a case here in London. Can you tell me what you're after concerning her?"

"She was killed sometime early this morning. We're trying to find her murderer."

There was a frustrated exhale from the other end and then, "Well, isn't that convenient…" her voice faded out to murmur indistinctly to someone in the background. He could dimly hear a man's cultured tones answer her, and then she was back with him, "We'd hoped she might shed some light on our investigation but slim chance now, eh? Doubt our case will help yours. Still, suppose we'd better talk. Your place or ours?"

Hathaway allowed her an amused snort. "I'll talk to my governor and get back to you."

"Don't leave it too long," she warned.

Lewis frowned and sighed. "London…I don't fancy the trip, but reckon we'll have to go see where she lived and chat with the locals." The local being New Scotland Yard, Hathaway found the prospect more interesting than he otherwise might have. He'd been offered a place there, and it had been six of one and half a dozen of the other between it and Oxfordshire. If DCS Innocent and the chiming bells of Oxford hadn't swung the pendulum north, he very well might have been working this case from the other end of the line.

"Pleasant day for a drive, Sir," he said to the inspector who retorted with an unconvinced groan. "Not a London man then?" Hathaway asked before he'd thought and there was no way to call the words back then.

There was that regrouping stillness from the inspector followed by the determined swallow before Lewis managed a grimace and forced out, "Not hardly, Sergeant." No, he wouldn't be, would he? She'd died in London. Mrs. Lewis. Hathaway left unvoiced the 'sorry, Sir' that he knew the inspector would not welcome, but Lewis recognized it in his face anyway. Hardly the sergeant's fault that there were so many things that automatically triggered memories of his wife and flooded him afresh with waves of grief.

To cover the awkwardness of the moment he said, "Morse called it 'the wicked metropolis'."

He'd brought up the old words to keep the silence from swallowing them, but he fell quiet immediately thereafter because memories of Morse could still engulf him in aching loss almost as much as those of Val. Really the two were so entwined that one invariably led to the other. For he had no memories of Morse that weren't linked to Val in one way or another: the way he'd had to juggle the demands of the job with the needs of his wife and children, the times he'd failed to be there for them because he'd been unable to get away from a case, the nights he'd walked away from his obviously lonely and dejected inspector because he'd promised Val he'd be home early, Morse's exasperation when he took time off for family holidays or to help Val around the house ('You're always on leave!' Morse had complained like an abandoned toddler), her frustration when he'd come home late reeking of Morse's favorite pub and her stuck home all day and evening with sick kids, the way she'd laughed with him over the stories he'd tell of their days when he'd finally extricated himself from work and made it home, the way she'd grown solemn and silent when those stories had been darker than the night around them, the way she'd held him wordlessly while he'd wept that night he'd come home from saying goodbye to the chief inspector for the very last time.

"Go on. Get home to your wife and kiddies. They need you even more that I do," Morse had told him the same evening he'd made that comment about London. Other times he'd surprised Lewis asking after Val and sending her his regards. In return, Val had always sent extra sandwiches to tide Morse through long nights, worried over his drinking and the ulcers and the diabetes that had wracked Morse's health, sent him carefully knitted scarves he'd never worn, and made excuses for his tyrannical hold over his sergeant's time to his children. Over all the years, there'd been very few times when Morse and his wife had actually spent time together. It had been a rare day when he'd been able to talk his boss into stopping off for a meal with the family, and he'd never managed to arrange an evening for the three of them to share a pint. Even so they'd become so linked in his memories that missing one often meant missing the other as well.

Yet, he could occasionally talk about his old inspector while he still found it impossible to speak of Val except briefly to their daughter. After so much time, he thought he should have built up some defenses against the pain of her loss, should have been able to speak her name without needing to swallow down tears, should have been able to spare his sergeant the discomfort of the pained silences that invariably followed the slightest suggestion of something having to do with her death. If so, he'd failed terribly in it.


	3. Chapter 3

_Part Three_

There was a note, scribbled hastily by the look of it, on a rather crumpled and worn card asking Ms. Wethersmith to call the police about an urgent matter. It had been there awhile Hathaway guessed from the look of it. Sgt. Havers pulled it off in an aggrieved manner and wadded it up before thrusting it into the depths of her large shoulder bag where he guessed it had come from in the first place.

There were, when they forged on into the stale air of the long closed-up flat, two messages from the sergeant on the answering machine; the first polite, the second not quite so. Before, in between, and after them were a fair number of other calls: a doctor's appointment, long missed now; the library with a held book which surely had been reshelved by now; various family members looking forward to seeing her at the reunion and later hoping she wouldn't miss all the festivities; and Lizzie Tevett eager to get together for lunch while Courtney was in Oxford. Except for Havers' messages, none of them seemed the slightest bit ominous or suggestive of intrigue. Neither did anything else in the rather cushy flat where Courtney Wethersmith had lived alone.

A heaping pile of mail was scattered below the mail drop, but none of it of any particular interest to the police. The refrigerator had been emptied of perishables, or, from the looks of it, had never been all that well-stocked with much of anything as though few if any meals were actually prepared or eaten in the flat. The threadbare cupboards, looking all too much like Lewis and Hathaway's own, suggested the latter. The double bed was rather carelessly put together, the sheets and pillows relatively clean and appearing only used on one side of the bed, an over-due library thriller turned face-down halfway through on the nightstand beside the obligatory alarm clock and a half-glass of water lined around with white evaporation marks. Makeup was still scattered over the bathroom vanity, and dried toothpaste splatters matching those from the motel in Oxford indicated Courtney hadn't been worried about cleaning up before she'd headed off to catch the train to Oxford several days before.

"She meant to come home," Hathaway summed up for them all as he poked half-heartedly through her still full closet.

Lewis grunted in response, DI Lynley nodded his head, and Sergeant Havers scowled about as though she could frighten any hiding clues into showing themselves.

If the words _New Scotland Yard_ had carried with them any romantic notions of elegant and dignified policing, they were embodied in the tall, handsome, and clearly aristocratic Lynley. Havers though, definitely not. There was something hard and brittle in her etched face and cockney voice that was foreboding and warned she was not someone to cross. She was all street to Lynley's highroad. He was sophistication, she was…something else entirely right down to the ketchup stain on the cuff of her over-sized jacket, the black (newsprint? ash?) smudge on her cheek, her ill-fitting clothes, and ill-cut hair.

Yet, for all that, the detectives from the Met seemed to get on well. Watching their interactions, Hathaway thought if either of the pair had to work at accepting the other it was Havers. The cultured polish of the inspector rubbed on her while her rough edges seemed to have no effect at all on him. From long acquaintance, perhaps. Or just good manners on the inspector's part.

Hathaway wryly admitted to himself that Lynley's innate assurance and aristocratic bearing could easily have rubbed on his own inspector in much the same way as it seemed to Havers. Lewis and the hobnobs around Oxford…yep. But Lewis and Lynley…they were both professionals and if there was any class-consciousness between them, Hathaway wasn't detecting it.

The sergeant wondered about the inspector from New Scotland Yard. There had been a time when working for an inspector like Lynley would have suited him, suited him very well. He didn't think of himself as a snob or class-conscious, but the thought of being paired with Lewis had not initially thrilled his soul. He'd looked at the lined face and the mussed suit and heard the working class Geordie and he'd failed to see the quick mind behind them. He'd equated a sharp suit and educated tones to intelligence though he'd learned quickly enough the error in his judgment.

Which was why he watched Inspector Lynley treating Barbara Havers as a valued colleague and decided he would not let her bristly nature and unprofessional appearance fool him into thinking she was less than a good officer.

"We could try her work again," Hathaway ventured though he was personally ready to call it a day.

"Fat lot of good it would do you," Havers told him shortly as though he'd questioned her abilities. "We've already done, and she hasn't been since the Thursday before you say she turned up your way."

"But, you weren't looking into her life as a murder victim, just a possible witness," he reminded her.

She shook her head dismissively. "There's nothing else to learn there. She was one of those quiet sorts that do the job and go home and people only notice when she doesn't, never when she's there right under their noses. Even then...the neighbors didn't even know she'd gone, her friends didn't miss her. She didn't make waves, didn't make enemies, didn't warrant anyone's notice—"

"Except her killer's," Lewis said quietly cutting through what had been quickly becoming a rant and bringing it to a sudden end.

Havers frowned at him and said, "Right. Except her killer."

"Unless, even he didn't notice her," Inspector Lynley suggested.

"What's that?" Lewis asked him.

Lynley explained, "Wrong place, wrong time…maybe he had no choice but to kill her."

"Bit of damage control, you mean?" Havers asked.

"Precisely."

Lewis pursed his lips as he thought that over. Then, with a shake of his head, he said, "I don't buy it. What was it you told me at the scene, Hathaway? A bit of a drama queen, wasn't it? She liked the attention, liked to be noticed. Maybe not at work and maybe not at home, but among her family. She made sure they noticed her."

The four detectives exchanged speculative glances. "Down to the family then," Lewis pronounced and none of the others had anything to counter his conclusion. "Best we're getting back to Oxford then, before the whole lot of them disperse to parts unknown. Thanks for your assistance, Inspector, Sergeant," he said to the two Met officers.

Under her breath, Havers murmured, "Not before time," and Lynley breathed a soft, restraining, "Havers," before answering Lewis, "My pleasure, actually, Inspector. We worked a case in Oxford back in 2005, and I was disappointed not to meet you then. I believe you were off on special assignment at the time."

"Me?" Lewis asked in surprise. "Suppose I would have been. Was there…?"

"You worked with Chief Inspector Morse all those years. He had quite a reputation. It would have interested me to hear what his old sergeant had to say about working with the best detective in perhaps all of England…"

"He was that, the best," Lewis allowed.

"From what I understand, you haven't let him down. You've quite a reputation yourself, you know?"

Lewis frowned at that and grumbled, "I've never been half the detective Morse was…no need to think otherwise."

"Just the same, Inspector," Lynley said and held out his hand to Lewis. Lewis scowled at it as though undecided if in accepting it he would be unfaithful to his old inspector. He did, in the end, reach out and give Lynley a quick handshake. He jerked his head back toward Hathaway and said, "It's James here whose hand you should be shaking. He's the one that's going somewhere." With that, Lewis stalked off leaving his sergeant open-mouthed behind him.

Hathaway shut his mouth and sketched his own farewell to the two officers. Before he could follow after Lewis, Inspector Lynley held out his hand and said, "Sergeant." Hathaway hesitated not knowing how to take that outstretched hand or whether he should explain that Lewis' words had surely been in jest.

Lynley nodded encouragingly at him while saying to his own sergeant, "Two humble police officers working together, Havers…that's one for the book. Not to worry, Sergeant Hathaway, your inspector isn't the only one singing your praises, and I dare say he's right…in any case, it won't hurt you to shake my hand." Seeing that the only gracious way out was through that handshake, Hathaway obliged him and then fled after Lewis so quickly that he could easily have ended up treading on his toes.

On the drive back to London, Lewis said, "We'll start with the family that left the messages on her phone. See if they were wanting to track her down to smooth over the row or to get her in their sights. There was what? Two women and only the one man? We'll start with him. I want to talk to him first thing tomorrow."

"And the women?" Hathaway asked.

"The man first. You saw the family photos the professor gave me. Courtney was a fair-sized woman, but most of the Wethersmith women were fragile-looking things—not to say they couldn't have done the deed and thrown her out that window, but the man would be most likely."

"There's also still the question of where she'd been…"

"Aye. Might have to make a public appeal. See if we can get any leads that way. But, let's leave it until after we've spoken to caller number three, shall we?"

"Right," Hathaway agreed though he spent a good deal of the drive back to Oxford considering possible avenues of enquiry into just where Courtney Wethersmith had spent the last few days of her life and what she'd managed to get up to during them.

Lewis interrupted his considerations at one point to ask, "What was that with Lynley taking the mickey there about Morse?"

"Sir? I don't think he was. I think he was sincere. I'm sure he didn't mean any disrespect…surely, he's not the first who's asked?"

"Nope, he's not," Lewis said sounding more than a bit disgruntled. "Used to get it all the time, but it's not what they meant: What's it like to work with the best? It was what's it like to work with a prat like Morse, wasn't it? Only they didn't know him. Morse…he wasn't just the drink and…Sophocles and all that. He was the best. The very best."

Hathaway had no way of knowing what Sophocles had to do with Morse either as the arrogant so-and-so the rest of the station pegged him as or as the great man Lewis remembered him being, but he didn't ask. He'd been hearing about Morse ever since he'd first arrived in Oxford, and he'd taken most of it with a grain of salt. The drink and the arrogance and everything else that went along with it. Oh, he'd heard enough stories, and enough comments from Lewis, to know there was a great deal of truth to them. But, he'd also heard the remembrances of people like Trudy Griffin, and even a rough, man-eating bruiser like Charlie Read who Morse had put away for a number of years had had good things to say about the man. And then there had been the glimpses he'd seen through Lewis' eyes that had told him all he'd needed to know about Chief Inspector Morse.

"Yes," he said. "I know."

"Do you?"

"You've told me often enough, haven't you?" Hathaway said. He threw a grin over at Lewis. Lewis sniffed before returning it. Hathaway thought it was best to let that be the end of the conversation. As uncomfortable as Lynley's comments about Lewis had made the inspector, there was no need for him to have to know that Hathaway had been fielding similarly phrased questions every since they'd been partnered together: What's it like working with Inspector Lewis? But there had never been any doubt about their sincerity, even when the implicit question behind them was occasionally voiced: What's it like working with the best?


	4. Chapter 4

_Part Four_

If looks made the killer, the man they ushered into the interview room the next morning, Tad Wethersmith, cousin to the deceased and a fellow Londoner, certainly looked capable of throwing a woman of Courtney's size out a window. He was taller and broader than Lewis with an athlete's build.

"Thank you for coming in to talk with us, Mr. Wethersmith." Lewis said as they settled into their seats and Hathaway handed out cups of tea. "What can you tell us about your cousin? Were the two of you close?"

"Yes, we were. Very close."

"I'm sorry then for your loss," Lewis said and the sincerity in his voice reached the man sitting across from him.

"Thank you," Wethersmith said and swallowed painfully. After a moment's pause he began, "Courtney was the youngest in her family. By several years. She fit in much more with my brothers and sisters and me…she spent much of her time at our home and…" he shrugged and bit his lip, "…even when we'd grown, you see, Courtney and I…we went to the same college, even worked for a time in the same company. We spent a great deal of time together until the past few years."

"What happened then, Mr. Wethersmith?" Lewis prompted him.

Wethersmith shook his head as though pulling himself out of his memories. "I'm sorry?" he said.

"You said the two of you were close until the past few years…what happened to interfere with that closeness? Was there a problem between the two of you?"

Wethersmith blinked and said, "No." He ran a finger around the rim of his Styrofoam cup as he continued, "It wasn't that. Only, I fell in love, you see? Married. Had my son…there just wasn't the time—my son, he's…uh…well, he's not been healthy. Worse than that even. He was born with some rather severe health issues…tuberous sclerosis, if you've heard of it? No. Of course not. Anyway, he's had quite a time of it, with his heart first and then the fits. So you understand, there just wasn't time for Courtney. Not like there used to be."

"Of course," Lewis murmured. "So…did you know where Courtney had gotten to—after this row the family had earlier in the week?"

"Um…no."

"Were you concerned about where she'd gotten off to?"

"No. You have to understand, Inspector, Courtney was…Courtney—well, it doesn't put her in the best light, but Courtney was the youngest of a large family, fairly doted upon when she was small and cute, but then…her siblings had their own lives, and I think Courtney felt somewhat abandoned. She tended to carry on a bit, trying to get the attention she'd had when she was young I guess.

"Her walking off after causing a row…it was something she did to get noticed. It hadn't worked well, as you can imagine, but that didn't seem to stop her. Normally, in years past, I would have hunted her up, cajoled her back, smoothed things over, but…my son—we shouldn't have brought him. My wife and I were both worried about taking him away from London. His doctors are all there and his routine and, of course, the fits have been worse with all the upheaval and we've had a devil of a time getting them to stop…I simply didn't have time to placate Courtney."

Wethersmith paused there. Waiting for the next question maybe. Lewis let the silence lengthen. He watched Wethersmith steadily as though he could see into the man's very soul, and then he leaned forward and began to talk in a quiet, gentle voice, "And, so…when she called, when she asked—demanded more like—you come and give her the attention she was craving…it was all more than you could take," he paused to shake his head sadly at the man while never taking his eyes off of him. Then he dropped the bombshell just as quietly, "…and you killed her."

The man looked stricken. He stared at Lewis wide-eyed and gulped for air. Finally, he said, "You believe I killed her, don't you?"

"I think it would be best if my sergeant cautioned you before we go on, Mr. Wethersmith," Lewis told him. "Hathaway," he said, rose from his seat, and paced around the back of the room while Hathaway moved forward to caution Wethersmith.

_ "You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence."_

The sergeant was as surprised by how the interview was proceeding as Wethersmith. He assumed Lewis had picked up on something he himself had missed. Certainly, nothing the man had said had in anyway pointed a finger at himself. He might have looked like a murderer, but he didn't seem one in the least. No. A decent enough chap, overwhelmed with his own family troubles, and distraught over the loss of his cousin. Lewis must have seen something that indicated Tad could point his finger at their killer. The caution was an attempt to apply just enough pressure to open the man up and give them what they needed. That, Hathaway concluded, must be it.

Wethersmith accepted the caution without a protest and refused the presence of a solicitor. Hathaway settled back into his own seat, and Lewis rejoined them.

Lewis shook his head regretfully over at Wethersmith and said, "Yes, Mr. Wethersmith, I'm afraid I do believe you killed your cousin." Hathaway swallowed down an exclamation of astonishment. Tad shook his head weakly, put his tongue in the corner of his mouth to hold back the tears filling his eyes, and drew in a shuddering breath.

"I think," Lewis continued, "that Courtney called you. Expected you to come running like you always had before, and then…?"

Wethersmith put his head into his hands. He muttered something that might have been, "You know, don't you?"

"Mr. Wethersmith?" Hathaway asked. He couldn't see this man as their killer. There would be an answer to Lewis' accusation and an explanation for those mumbled words.

Tad Wethersmith raised his head and gazed at Lewis with the same intensity that Lewis had earlier looked at him.

"It's no good, Sir," Lewis told him. "Better to have it out…for you, for your wife and son, and for your cousin."

Wethersmith nodded his head and began, "It was…Rory, my son, he'd been seizing off and on all evening. We'd been on the phone for ages with his neurologist in London—he wanted us to bring Rory straight home, but my wife was afraid of making the trip with Rory like that. His London doctor was consulting with a neurologist here in case we needed to take him to hospital before we could go home…it was a madhouse, and…Courtney called, insisted I come running. She couldn't seem to understand I couldn't just leave my wife to look after Rory. She was insistent…and then she said…" he swallowed and fought down tears before going on. Inspector Lewis waited quietly for him to continue.

"Years back, when I—when we were much younger, I had a child with another woman—it wasn't anything, the relationship with the woman, but…there was a child and it was born still…major heart defects, incompatible with life. Superficially, it looked—at least to Courtney, who knew about the dead child, of course—like what is wrong with Rory, the heart problems anyway. Courtney said…she said she'd tell Ambra, my wife—my pregnant wife who is already overstressed with Rory and all the worry over him and doesn't need burdened with something distressing like this, especially because it simply isn't true!"

"What? What did she say she'd tell? That the dead child meant you were a carrier of…a genetic disorder? That the child she's carrying might very well have the same problems as Rory?"

"Yes! And it isn't true…I spoke with a geneticist before I ever married Ambra and agreed to have children with her. After the first child…I wanted to make sure. He looked at the records and doctor reports…and it hadn't come from either the mother or I. Wasn't genetic at all. Rory, though, the tuberous sclerosis…it is genetic. Can be. But not in our case, almost certainly. But not one hundred per cent…there's always a slim chance that it could be unless DNA tests can pinpoint things exactly. In Rory's case, the tests haven't been able to locate the causative mutation. So there might be the slightest possibility, you see…Ambra didn't need that. Not on top of all we've gone through this week. I couldn't let Courtney…"

"No. So, you arranged to meet her, and what, Tad?" Lewis prompted him gently.

"No, no…I—Rory, he…we couldn't wait to take him home, we had to put him in hospital here. I told Courtney I couldn't possibly come. Not then. She…she couldn't seem to understand how serious Rory's condition was—is. If we couldn't stop the fits…he could have died or been severely compromised. Her hurt feelings, her abandonment issues…they didn't mean a thing next to what Rory was going through! She refused to see that. My wife, after the hospital had been able to get Rory stabilized, she sent me back to the motel to get some rest in case they let us take Rory home the next morning…the drive and all. I was to be resting. But, Courtney…she kept calling, kept after me. That's when I arranged to meet her. She'd checked into that old-run down motel…well, you saw it, didn't you? You were there after…it was—I couldn't settle, my son was near death in hospital, my wife…and Courtney," he said the last with a disgruntled tone and fell silent.

"Didn't care, did she? What you and your wife were going through with your son? She meant to even make matters worse unless you spent time you didn't have appeasing her, playing up to her while your lives fell apart. Something had to break."

"Yes."

"And so you killed her."

"Yes. I didn't want to! I didn't mean to…but I did…like I said, I couldn't settle. We went for a walk, along the river. Stupid really. It was dark, no one about. Anything could have happened." He began to weep then, hard, gasping cries that Lewis once again waited out so he could carry on with his tale. "Anything could have happened, and it did. I didn't mean to kill her, I didn't mean to pick up the rock, and…I stumbled over it. Banged my shin…and Courtney. She couldn't even understand that…thought I should just go on as though my family wasn't in tatters and my leg wasn't bleeding…as though her happiness was the only thing that mattered, and I…it was in my hand. And I hit her with it. Hard. Three times, maybe four?…and she just…crumbled. And I dropped the rock…it must be there still. On the side of the path. I…I didn't know what to do. I was so tired, so…I didn't mean to kill her."

"Why didn't you leave her there? Why take her back to the motel?" Lewis asked.

Wethersmith shrugged. "I couldn't. I thought, maybe…maybe she wasn't dead. Maybe she'd be all right—I wasn't thinking straight I guess. Hadn't been all night.

"There wasn't any trouble taking her back to the motel…she'd worn a cape with a hood—it covered up the blood I think. We passed someone, just off the river path…not right under the light, but enough they would have noticed, surely, if it hadn't. But, I just held her up like she'd had a bit too much to drink and they—he—it was a man pushing his bike along…too dark to ride I expect, or maybe he'd had too much drink and couldn't manage it. He said, 'Hit it a bit hard, hasn't she?' and I was mad I think because I almost laughed, because she'd hit it more than a bit too hard, only it had been a rock she'd hit and not the bottle. 'Just a bit,' I said and we laughed and went our ways and then I was crying and begging her to not be dead…don't be dead, Court, please don't be dead…only she was, wasn't she?"

He broke down again, and Hathaway thought they had enough. If the rock was there by the river path, if they could find the man in the night, they'd have enough. He desperately wanted them to have enough. He didn't want to sit in this room any longer with the devastated Wethersmith and his horrible story and his wracking tears.

But Lewis never moved; he waited quietly until they had it all.

"It wasn't hard to get her into the motel. The girl at the desk…she was out of her head…tripping. She never even saw us I don't think. We walked right past her. No…I dragged her right past her. My cousin, my best friend…and for all my begging she was dead. I could see that once we were in the elevator…in the light. There was no hope…no taking any of it back…I couldn't let anyone know what had happened…Ambra and Rory—what would happen if I wasn't here for them…I couldn't…I put her out the window of her room…but you know that, don't you? You know it all," he said as he looked into Lewis' sad eyes.

"I never thought you'd put it down to me," he concluded tiredly.

"No," Lewis said and his voice sounded just as tired and sad as Wethersmith's. "They never do." He stood up wearily and walked toward the door. As he passed their murderer, he laid a hand on his shoulder for a brief moment. "I think, perhaps, you should call your wife. Let her know you'll be detained," he said.

Later that night after uniform had located the man on the bike and he'd confirmed everything Wethersmith had told them about their encounter the night Courtney had been killed, and after forensic had found the rock with all of its damning evidence still intact, Hathaway asked, "How did you know, Sir?" He'd pondered that question all day, because there had been no witness statement or evidence that morning when the inspector had pointed a finger at their killer.

Lewis scratched the top of his head and frowned at his drink and finally answered the sergeant with a shrug and, "Put it down to Morse. It wasn't a case to solve by running about gathering clues and witness statements. Traipsing off to London and scraping toothpaste off basins," he shook his head. "And learning not much of anything. Except no one ever noticed Courtney except her killer…but that was all we needed to know. Just had to think it through from there. By his own admission, Tad Wethersmith was the only one who had ever really noticed her since she'd been a wee lass. He'd always been the one to come looking for her, talk her into coming back. This time he didn't, so she came looking for him. Determined to at least force him to notice her if she couldn't anyone else. Only, this time, he couldn't take notice of her because his world was falling apart. She couldn't accept that, had to keep at him, had to keep pushing at him until, in the end, he pushed her out the window."

Lewis sighed heavily and took a long drink before answering, "He wasn't a killer. Or he was, but he wasn't meant to be. He'd been living with what he'd done all that night and through the next. It was destroying him, and it showed. In his eyes. I didn't want to see it. Didn't want him to be the murderer, but…he was, and I couldn't help seeing it."

Hathaway waited quietly to see if Lewis had anything more to say, but that was Lewis' last word on the Courtney Wethersmith case.

_Author's Note: I'm sorry if the explanation in Wethersmith's confession is unclear…I couldn't see how to make it any clearer without breaking the rhythm of the story. For those who might wonder, here is my simplistic understanding of a complex issue: Tuberous sclerosis (TSC) is a genetic disorder involving an infinitesimally small defect (of any sort, translocation, deletion, insertion, whathaveyou) anywhere on one of two different genes which makes genetic testing for it rather complicated. The fact that the defect can occur in only isolated cells instead of them all (mosaicism) complicates things even further. Unless the genetic tests can pinpoint exactly what the mutation is and where it is in a specific case, even knowing that the majority of cases are new mutations and there is no sign of the disorder in the family history, geneticists can not assure parents __who have already had one child born with tuberous sclerosis that they won't have another child with it as well. Not __with a _hundred per cent_ __certainly. The difference between ninety-eight per cent certainty and one hundred per cent may seem slight, but when parents are living every day with the devastation a severe case of TSC has brought into their lives it can be huge. Certainly huge enough to play into a scenario like I've imagined here. _

_More information can be found at the websites for the Tuberous Sclerosis Alliance and the Tuberous Sclerosis Association, UK._

_Early summer, 2002. Another blurry snapshot I keep in that box in the closet of my mind…staring at brain scans showing what looks like more abnormal brain matter than normal while the child in question happily plays peek-a-boo with her little sister under the exam table. For all the parents who've had to take a crash course on tuberous sclerosis and all the children who rise above those words._


End file.
